


Words, Words, Words

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday Spanking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just over 1000 words of unadulterated smut, featuring, amongst other things:<br/> Grantaire, Combeferre, spanking, D/S elements, and boys wearing silk stockings (as one does)<br/>Written for Liz, on her birthday</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words, Words, Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [downtheroadandupthehill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/gifts).



There’s a word for this.

There  _is_ , he’s sure, there are words for most things, people use words, it’s what makes people people. Supposedly.

He’s babbling, silently inside his head, thoughts flying past and completely failing to cohere, but there _is_ , there  _must_  be a word for this, even if the only thing coming out of his mouth is a series of ragged, off-beat gasps, rhythmless  _out-in-in-out-in_. Grantaire screws his eyes shut, and bites his lips bloody.

The word, maybe, Grantaire thinks, in the the split second he  _can_  think again, is “desperate”.

That bent over Combeferre’s knee, with his hands behind his back and his nails biting into his palms so deep they must be hitting bone by now, and his rigid erection pressed up to his stomach, smearing precome across his skin, mixed with sweat, that with the sheer silk of Combeferre’ stocking whispering across the underside of his cock and the sting as Combeferre’s hand comes down across the back of his thigh, and the hot rush that follows as his skin turns red, he is probably  _extremely_  desperate.

His teeth skate across his lips, closing around the very beginning of a word, but‒

Combeferre slaps his hand down across Grantaire’s ass, hard enough to drive him forward, hard enough to push his aching, leaking cock across the silk of his stocking again.

“Fu‒ _hah!_ ” is all that comes out, curses ripped off into gasps.

There cannot  _possibly_  be enough blood in his body; Grantaire throbs from ass to ankles, red all across the backs of both legs, and so there cannot possibly be enough blood in his body, for his cock to be flushed as dark as it is, for it to be throbbing as well, in counterpoint to the roaring thud of his heartbeat, pounding in his ears. Grantaire can feel tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

“Now,” Combeffere purrs. “What do we say?”

There are words for this, there  _are_  such things as words. It’s just he can’t quite find them. Grantaire hangs, head down, licking his lips.

“‘m sorry” he pants at last.

“For?” Combeferre smoothes his hand over the curve of Grantaire’s ass, drumming his fingers absently. Grantaire whines.

“F-for acting like a g-greedy s-s-slut.”

“Hmmm.” Combeferre hums, stroking his thumb back and forth over Grantaire’s flushed skin, “A greedy slut whom I indulge far more than anyone deserves.”

There is a nothing, only air across his skin, before Combeferre  _slaps_  his hand down again, swatting the outside of Grantaire’s hip. “Get up.”

So Grantaire slides down, biting back a moan as the head of his cock catches on some invisible burr in the silk, slides down until his knees can touch the floor, and he can slide them apart to take his weight, straightening with the muscles quivering across his stomach and shoulders, and his wrists still crossed behind his back. Combeferre paces around to stand in front of him, and it’s like looking up and seeing God. Sheer blue silk, dark enough to almost be black, wraps his legs all the way up to his thighs, and it goes  _on_  for  _miles_ , and if not the faint blush across his chest, and his straining cock, framed by the garter belt, there would be nothing, nothing at all, to suggest that Combeferre is anything less than perfectly composed. As it is, his face is cool and serene, looking fondly at down at Grantaire. “You did very well.” he murmurs, carding his fingers briefly through Grantaire’s wild curls. “Considering.”

And Grantaire can barely think, pupils blown and lips swollen, but something must be getting through, some hint of confusion; Combeferre bends smoothly at the waist, and cups Grantaire’s chin in one hand. “Considering,” he breathes “that you are a  _hopelessly_  greedy slut. Still,” Combeferre straightens, and Grantaire shivers as his fingers pull away, “you did well, for all that.”

Grantaire whimpers, eyeing Combeferre’s flushed cock with naked want stamped across his face.

And, still, impossibly, Combeferre steps  _back_ , steps  _away_ , hands on his hips with one eyebrow raised admonishingly, drawling “ _Words_ , Grantaire.”

“ _Please._ ”

One corner of his mouth twitches, only slightly. “Please?” Combeferre purrs.

Grantaire swallows, chest heaving, mouth dry. His shoulders ache, his ass, pressed into his heels, aches, his cock aches,  _everything_ , all the things feeling only air instead of Combeferre’s skin  _ache_ , hopelessly and Grantaire closes his eyes desperately and pleads “ _Please,_  please can I— _fuck_ , please, can I please s-suck—” The lines of his throat run taut and sharp as Grantaire tips his chin towards the ceiling “Can I please, _please_  suck your cock?”

Combeferre smiles. “Good.” He says, softly.

And his fingers flicker, and thank  _God_ , and Grantaire wraps his lips around him with a ragged moan and  _sucks_. His hand slides up, palming Combeferre’s hip, which he shouldn’t, he knows, but it isn’t in him to  _care_  right now, with lace pressing into his forehead and Combeferre heavy on his tongue. Grantaire’s fingers spasm, as if to pull himself closer, as if to drag himself further down Combeferre’s cock, tongue lapping at the slit. His cheeks hollow, and Grantaire closes his eyes.

“One of these days,” Combeferre whispers, “you are going to be the death of me. My greedy,” His hand fists, almost convulsively, in Grantaire’s hair, “ _perfect_  little whore.”

There is a word for this, Grantaire thinks, when he  _can_ think, as he comes back down, which is probably something like “aftermath” but might also be “warm” or “safe”, or possibly there isn’t one, or even several, and he’s been wrong all this time, that there may actually be no way to describe his legs against Combeferre’s legs, sweat on skin on silk and Combeferre’s lips just brushing the back of his neck, and the warmth at his back, and the  _other_  warmth pooling just under his ribcage, all at the same time. He nuzzles his cheek into Combeferre’s neck with a small, contented mew, and Combeferre laughs.

“You are impossible.” He says fondly, skating his knuckles over Grantaire’s side. “Happy Birthday.”


End file.
